A Life in Stories

When I immigrated to Canada from Hong Kong in 1968, I was 20 years old. I carried a suitcase of dreams, $20 dollars in my pocket and a heartful of hope and very little certainty about where life would take me.

My journey had begun in Canton, China. At five, I moved to Hong Kong. Canada then led me from Winnipeg to Grande Prairie, Provost, a ranch near Czar and, most recently, Cadogan.

Looking back, I notice an interesting pattern: each community became smaller, yet my life became larger - more meaningful, more connected and more rewarding.

That was not what I expected. Like many young people, I once believed success would be found in a bigger city, a bigger business or a bigger bank account. Life taught me something different. Sometimes the greatest opportunities are waiting in the smallest places.

When Allyson and I moved to Provost in 1985, we were looking for a business opportunity and a good place to raise our family. What we found was much more: a community that would change the course of our lives.

In a large city, it can be possible to remain anonymous. In a small town, your daily actions become your introduction. Your reputation is built one customer, one promise and one act of service at a time. We learned that people might enter a restaurant for the food, but they returned because of how we made them feel.

At the Greenhead Motel & Restaurant, we had a simple standard: acknowledge every seated customer within 20 seconds. Even when we were busy, we could look over and say, “I see you. I’ll be right with you.” Those few words told a person they mattered.

Over time, Provost did not simply become the place where we operated a business. It became home. The Greenhead became more than a motel and restaurant; it became a gathering place where stories were shared, friendships were formed and newcomers became neighbours. Customers encouraged me for years to write down the stories I so often told across a restaurant table. Eventually, those conversations helped inspire my memoir, Beyond Adversity, Dawn Awaits.

Provost taught me that belonging also carries a responsibility. Once a community makes room for you, you must make room for others. That belief guided our involvement in sports, community events, mentoring young people and welcoming employees who often became like family.

Each place on my journey gave me something different. Hong Kong taught me energy. Winnipeg taught me endurance. Grande Prairie taught me opportunity. Provost taught me belonging. Czar brought me closer to the land, and Cadogan is teaching me that even after a long and full life, there are still neighbours to meet and stories to share.

Small towns are often described by what they do not have: fewer stores, fewer services and fewer people. I prefer to describe them by what they offer - room to contribute, room to be known, room to build trust and room to make a difference that can be seen.

In the columns ahead, I hope to share stories from business, family, community, adversity and the hunting trail. Some may make you think, some may make you smile, and perhaps a few will remind you of lessons from your own life.

My journey has taught me that the size of a place does not limit the size of a dream. Sometimes we must become part of a smaller community to discover a larger life.

When I was 13 years old, I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. The pain was sometimes so severe that I could not sleep. My joints were stiff, my hands hurt, and even ordinary activities could be difficult.

I saw many doctors and tried different treatments. The advice I often received was simple: “If it hurts, don’t do it.” I was prescribed medications and told to take painkillers for relief. Despite those treatments, the condition stayed with me well into my thirties.

Then something began to change—not because I discovered a miracle cure, but because I discovered movement.

When I started playing basketball and participating in other sports, it often hurt at first. However, I began noticing something important: after exercising, my hands and joints usually felt better.

The discomfort did not always disappear immediately, but my body seemed to respond positively when I kept it moving. I decided the occasional discomfort was worth tolerating because, over time, I felt stronger and more flexible.

As the years passed, I became more active and gradually stopped taking many of the medications I had once relied upon. Today, I take two Advil before bedtime to help me sleep through the night without pain. With proper rest and regular activity, I no longer experience the constant discomfort that once shaped my daily life.

My experience taught me an important lesson. When our bodies hurt, our natural reaction may be to stop moving altogether. Rest is certainly important, and we should never ignore serious pain or disregard professional medical advice. But too much inactivity can also leave us stiffer and weaker.

As we grow older, staying active does not mean running marathons, lifting heavy weights or spending hours in a gym. Often, the most beneficial exercise is something we can do safely, enjoyably and consistently.

For me, that means walking with my dogs, Vulken and Tommy. Rain or snow, we go outside at least twice a day for a 20- to 30-minute walk. Some days we move faster than others, but the important thing is that we keep moving.

Those walks give me fresh air, quiet time and an opportunity to appreciate the changing seasons. They lift my spirits, keep my joints moving and help me maintain my strength and balance. The routine has also helped me keep my A1C—an important measure of blood sugar—under better control.

Everyone’s health and physical abilities are different. Anyone living with arthritis, chronic pain or another medical condition should consult a qualified healthcare professional before changing medications or beginning a new exercise routine.

But the general principle is simple: do what you safely can, start small and remain consistent.

Walk to the end of the block. Work in the garden. Stretch gently. Play with your grandchildren. Choose something you enjoy, because the best exercise is often the one you will continue doing.

My journey from a 13-year-old struggling with painful joints to a 78-year-old walking his dogs twice a day has taught me that exercise does not have to be strenuous to make a meaningful difference.

A little movement, repeated faithfully, can help us remain healthier, more independent and more engaged with life.

The hardest part is often taking the first step—but that first step is all we need to begin.

I have learned that the finest gifts are not always measured by their price. Their true value is found in what they make possible—and in how far their influence can travel from one person to another.

That lesson came to life through my wife, Allyson, and a beautiful cello from Germany.

When Allyson was young, she showed real promise as a cellist. Her Uncle Gordon recognized both her ability and her determination. He made it possible for her mother to buy her an excellent German cello—an instrument worthy of the work she was prepared to put into her music.

The cello did not create Allyson’s talent, and it did not replace the hours of practice required to develop it. What it did was give her talent room to grow. With that instrument, she achieved her Grade 10 cello in only five years and earned a scholarship to the Banff School of Fine Arts.

Those accomplishments belonged to Allyson, but Uncle Gordon’s generosity helped open the door. He saw what she might become and gave her a practical way to move toward it.

For many years, the cello was part of Allyson’s musical journey. It carried the sound of her effort, her discipline and the confidence that grew as she learned what she could accomplish. It also became a lasting reminder that someone had believed in her.

Later in life, while working with the National Music Festival, Allyson learned about a society that helps gifted young artists continue their studies. Through that connection, she discovered a young woman in Calgary whose progress was being limited because she did not have access to an instrument of the quality she needed.

Allyson understood that need immediately. She had once been the young musician whose potential was supported by someone else’s generosity. Now, she had the opportunity to do the same for another person.

She decided to loan the young woman her German cello.

An instrument like that carries financial value, but it also carries memories. Letting it leave her care required trust. Yet Allyson knew that an instrument is meant to be played, and that its greatest purpose would not be served by remaining safely stored away.

The young musician is now making wonderful progress in her pursuit of excellence. Knowing that the cello is helping her move forward gives Allyson tremendous joy. It is not simply an old possession being put to use. It is an opportunity being passed from one generation to the next.

Uncle Gordon could not have known how far his original act of kindness would reach. He helped one young musician, but his generosity did not end with Allyson’s achievements. Years later, it is still helping another gifted artist pursue her dreams.

That is the remarkable thing about a gift given with love and foresight. Its effect can continue long after the original moment has passed. One person’s encouragement can build confidence. One person’s assistance can unlock ability. One open door can lead to another.

We may not have a fine cello to lend, but each of us has something we can share—knowledge, time, encouragement, a useful tool, an introduction or an opportunity. What seems ordinary to us may be exactly what another person needs to take the next step.

Allyson’s cello keeps giving because Uncle Gordon first chose to believe in her, and because she later chose to carry that generosity forward.

The most meaningful way to honour a gift is not merely to remember it with gratitude. It is to let that gift become a blessing in someone else’s life.

For three years, David Steinbach, Greg McCowan and their hunting friends invited me to join them. For three years, I found a reason not to go.

They often stayed and ate at the Greenhead Motel & Restaurant. One evening, while their group was having dinner, I sat down at their table to ask about their meal and their hunt. As hunters do, they began telling stories. By the end of supper, I had finally agreed to join them.

They had already scouted the field and prepared a plan. We set out the blinds and decoys, then settled in to wait. The quiet time before the birds arrive is one of my favourite parts of a hunt. Stories are exchanged, laughter comes easily and people who were acquaintances begin to know one another.

David and Greg’s group had two black Labrador retrievers named Chief and Leo. They were disciplined, eager and a joy to watch. When the birds began to come and the shooting started, those two dogs retrieved every bird. Not one was lost.

I happened to shoot three birds with three shots. With more enthusiasm than modesty, I announced, “Three for three!” David, Greg and the others have never allowed me to forget it.

I also told them, “I will hunt with you guys anytime you have great dogs.” We laughed, but I meant it. Chief and Leo showed the skill, patience and partnership that make a good hunt memorable.

That day changed the course of my life, although not because of the number of birds we brought home. It opened the door to friendships that continued long after the guns were put away. We stayed in touch, shared more stories and built memories together.

Hunting has given me adventure, time outdoors and a deeper respect for the land and wildlife. It has also introduced me to people I might never have met otherwise. In a blind before sunrise, job titles and backgrounds matter very little. What matters is whether a person is dependable, considerate and willing to do their share.

There is a responsibility in hunting as well. We owe respect to the animals, care for the land, safe conduct in the field and gratitude for what nature provides. A successful hunt is not measured only by what is taken, but by how the day is conducted and what we carry away in our character.

I can still smile at “three for three,” and I can still picture Chief and Leo making those retrieves. Yet when I think of that hunt now, the birds are not the first thing I remember. I remember the company, the stories and the friendship.

The birds gave us wonderful memories, but the friendships became the real trophies.

For many years, Allyson and I dreamed of living on an acreage. In 1998, that dream came true when we purchased a fifteen-acre farmstead from a friend who was retiring and moving to Camrose.

I remember driving into the yard after taking possession. We stepped out of the car and stood there, looking around in awe. It was ours.

Not long afterward, my son Jonathan and I were taking a load of belongings to our new home. It was a fall evening, around eight or nine o’clock. As we turned into the driveway, the brightest orange harvest moon we had ever seen appeared above a huge maple tree.

I stopped the vehicle. Jonathan and I sat quietly, taking in the sight. I cannot remember how long we stayed there, but we still talk about that moment.

At first, we thought we had found a peaceful place to live. We soon discovered it would become much more. I could enjoy hunting close to home, while Allyson pursued her love of horses. She hosted riding symposiums and made lasting friendships through the equestrian community.

Both our daughters held their weddings on the acreage. We hosted birthdays, barbecues and neighbourhood gatherings. But some of my fondest memories are the family reunions we held every two years over the August long weekend.

Relatives of all ages came together for food, laughter and stories. Those weekends gave us the chance to know younger members of our extended family whom we might otherwise have known only by name. Children heard stories about the people who came before them. Relatives became friends.

Families do not stay close simply because they are related. Relationships need time and shared experiences. Someone has to make room for people to gather, and everyone has to make the effort to come.

When Allyson and I first stood in that yard, we could not have imagined the memories waiting for us there. We thought we were fulfilling a dream of country living. In time, we created a place where friendships grew, milestones were celebrated and generations stayed connected.

A property can be measured in acres and buildings. A home is measured in the memories people carry away from it. That was the acreage’s greatest gift to us.

Sometimes a lasting friendship begins with one simple question.

In August 2016, Chris Evensen and his wife, Roxann, stopped at the Provost Visitor Information Centre. Chris had long dreamed of returning to Canada for a goose hunt, and he wanted to know whether Provost was a good place for waterfowl hunting.

Before arriving, Chris had read about me in Ducks Unlimited magazine. He knew my first name and that I was connected to hunting in the area, but he did not know my last name, what I looked like or where to find me.

The hostess at the centre gave him a wonderfully small-town answer: “You need to talk to Pak.” Then she pointed toward the Greenhead Motel and Restaurant next door.

A few minutes later, Chris and Roxann walked in looking for someone they had never met. They simply asked for “Pak.” Fortunately, there was only one of me.

We began talking about goose hunting, the local fields and the best time to return. Before long, the conversation became about much more than hunting. That is one of the beautiful things about a small town. A person can arrive as a stranger, ask a simple question and leave having made a new friend.

Chris returned in the fall of 2017 with Kevin, Erik and Tyler for their first hunt in the Provost area. One inquiry at the visitor centre grew into annual visits, shared meals, mornings in the field and many stories around the table.

The hunting was memorable, but it was never the most important part.

When people spend time together before sunrise, waiting for geese to appear on the horizon, they learn a great deal about one another. There is time to talk, laugh and listen. Backgrounds and occupations matter less. What matters is whether someone is dependable, considerate and willing to share the experience.

Over the years, Chris and his family kept returning. Each visit added another chapter to a friendship that crossed the border and lasted long after hunting season ended.

In July, I received a letter from Chris reflecting on the ten years since that first meeting. He wrote warmly about our friendship and the time his family had spent in Provost. Then he wrote something that touched me deeply: “For us, Provost is Pak, and Pak is Provost.”

Those words reminded me that visitors may forget how many birds they harvested or the details of a particular hunt, but they remember how a place—and the people in it—made them feel.

Chris came to Provost looking for geese. What he found was hospitality, friendship and a community that welcomed him. I believed I was simply helping a visiting hunter. I did not know I was beginning a friendship that would continue through many seasons and migrations.

This month, as Chris and his family return once again, I am reminded that our interests may bring us together, but kindness is what keeps us connected. Community welcomes strangers, makes room at the table and turns chance meetings into lasting relationships.

The hunt may bring people together, but friendship is the real trophy.